


once upon a dream

by ineffableangel (InfallibleAngel)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sexual Tension, elias talks a lot, it was all a dream, its difficult to explain, well of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26010151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfallibleAngel/pseuds/ineffableangel
Summary: The Archivist does not know where he is, and in many ways that is correct, for to say that he was anywhere would be an error. But he is where he exists so often when his eyes are closed. He wanders the dreams he was given.Elias had also given him a dream, back after the Prentiss attack, and he too is bound up by the laws of this universe.Set after episode 120.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 20
Kudos: 49





	once upon a dream

**Author's Note:**

> this literally took me like 4 months to write

The Archivist knows exactly where he is, and that is not a comfort. The pale walls of the room are intimately familiar, because in the wake of horrifying terror, sometimes all you can do is focus on the mundane. The way the chair creaks when you lean back. The rough surface of the wooden table. The terrible colour of the walls, chosen in a time long before any of them had opinions on things like colours of walls. 

A man sits in an uncomfortable chair, and the archivist is also intimately familiar with him. He leans back, and the archivist would have missed the careful movement inviting him to lean in, get closer, take a look; if it wasn’t for the slow mechanical creak of the chair. Every movement the man makes is methodical, calculated, designed to intrigue you; a game only he knows the rules of. 

“Elias,” the archivist says and the man’s mouth widens, like a predator, like a lover. Teeth bared in an invitation and warning, gleaming in the pale fluorescent light.

The archivist will leave more things unsaid than said. Questions hang in the air, pressing down on him with the weight of all the knowledge he does not have, the density enough to pull him into a chasm he cannot break out of. He always needs to know, but he knows a futile endeavour when he sees it. 

He settles for asking, _What happened?_

The man looks immaculate as always, beatific in a well-fitted suit, with his perfect hair that always leaves the archivist with an urge to mess it up, shake him a little to prove that the man is real, that the man is human. The man switches from being a monster wearing a person-suit to being a person wearing a monster-suit in the blink of an eye and the archivist always wants to chisel away at the suit, crack it and peer into his depths to see what he will find there. 

Of course, right now, the man or the monster or the high priest or the boy scared in the dark looks anything but immaculate, but this is still the archivist’s dream and follows the dream logic of showing him what he wants to see but despises seeing.

“You died, Jon.” And it’s the way he says his name, all curling around his tongue like smooth vines binding the archivist, turning his weapons against him, that always reduces the archivist to a concentrated essence of himself. 

Names have power, that rule has always been true; but in a world of gods and primordial terrors and monsters, the only power names have is the power you give them. But the archivist has always been too much heart for machiavellian scheming. He is no St George slaying the dragon with careful, steady hands; instead, he feels like Lucifer falling from grace in the worst possible way. The man is neither God nor the dragon in this metaphor. The man is what he’s always been: just a man.

“I’d have thought I’d be free from you in the afterlife in that case,” the archivist says and the man laughs, his face blooming in one part joy, one part awe, one part adoration and two parts something the archivist will not recognise for quite some time. 

“Are you not afraid?” the man asks tilting his head, that small movement echoing a curiosity that is innate to his kind: human or acolyte. The man also has to follow the archivist’s dream logic, since he is dreaming as well, but he’s had quite some time to get used to the dream logic of his world. 

“No,” the archivist admits and the admission is news to him as well, shocking him as it leaves his mouth. “It’s almost a comfort. It’s the first time in months I feel like I can rest.”

Something in Elias’ expression twists at that and for a second he looks devoted. Like he cannot believe that this marvel of a man is here, in front of him, sitting in his institute in the uncomfortable chair. 

“Will I stay dead?”

Elias smiles, but fondness pokes through his slick sweet, practised bureaucratic smile. “Even The End can’t take you from me, my archivist.” Words that would usually sound threatening now take on a paler hue, tinted by that ray of fondness, but the archivist will not remember any of this, it is just a dream. 

* * *

“When will I wake up?” The archivist asks and the man tilts his head to the right. The archivist knows he’s amused but the man’s lips do not move, it’s the slight quickening of his breath, the shifting and lightening of his eyes, the way his shoulders fall. The archivist is hyper-aware of him, like a tuning fork singing in perfect pitch, his skin prickles in Elias’ presence, buzzing to do something, anything. The archivist does not know what his skin wants him to do as yet.

“You can never say with these things.”

“ _You_ can.”

And the man laughs, a sound that seems to surprise both him and his archivist since for a semitone they wear identical expressions. “Despite what it may seem, Jon, I cannot actually see the future.”

Elias always says his name like he’s making it his own.

This time they are standing alongside a cold and empty beach. The waves roll in with a dull but relaxing roar, and the sky is an unknowable grey matching the sea. He can feel himself slowly sinking into the sand as the water erodes it from under his shoes but somehow doesn’t quite manage to touch him. The salty breeze settles around him like a cloak or an old friend. He was surprised seeing the change in scenery, this has never happened before—his travels are recurring and fixed, but Elias is not beholden to those rules apparently.

They stand side by side in silence observing the unflinching sea. Elias is close enough that Jon doesn’t even have to reach out to touch his hand, but he resists. Resisting is work. Perhaps it is a characteristic of the dead, to want to hold the living, he rationalises, but he cannot stop the doubt from creeping into his heart that he has missed the mark with that guess. To think otherwise feels treasonous.

He takes it in, he has such few moments of peace here.

Occasionally, he breaks looking at the sea to peek at Elias.

The sea wind ruffling his hair, tickling his face.

Elias’ unblinking eyes staring at the distance.

The disconcerting lack of birds above the water.

Elias’ profile and his delicate ears that have the most attached lobes Jon has ever seen.

The undulating waves scraping off the land for its own.

Elias looking almost wistful.

Just then, before he can turn away Elias looks at him catching him in the act. The moment stills to an unbearable stop as Jon takes in a breath that’s more a gasp and they see each other. Jon turns away and the moment cracks. He does not dare look back.

Elias’ longing, wistful expressions seem out of place on him, like an ill-fitting coat that should long be disposed of. Or maybe Jon does not like to think of the man with emotions. It humanises him somehow, and the archivist wants to know him as a monster. Monsters shouldn’t be sad, they shouldn’t breathe out deeply like they are trying to empty out their soul, they shouldn’t have beautiful attached earlobes. It’s wrong somehow. If the man is human then that means the archivist is also capable of everything Elias has done.

“Why did you choose me to become the archivist?” Jon asks finally, dispersing the silence around them.

“You understand that you will not remember any of this when you wake up?”

“I still want to know. Tell me now and then tell me again when I wake up.”

Elias smiles, a slow reveal of his teeth. He looks proud, and his eyes flash with something the archivist does not want to recognise. He doesn’t like the idea of Elias being proud of him because that means he’s doing something very, very wrong, but he’s too far gone to care.

“You had experience with an entity already, that makes you more susceptible to our god.”

“Was it just that?”

Now the man hesitates, his expression is unchanged but the moment’s silence speaks volumes. To make Elias pause—Jon counts that as a victory. What he wouldn’t give to have the man speechless, breath hitching, eyes wide. Deep breath. Lips. Throat. Collarbones. Then Elias speaks: “You fascinated me.”

“What?” He can’t believe what he’s hearing. “ _What?_ ”

It spills out of Elias reverently, like he is confessing for the first time. He can’t take this back, it’s wine soaking into a carpet. “You were determined to hold on to unbelief even after an encounter, and the way you see the world, the way you think of people is a heady mix of contempt, resignation and empathy. It’s marvellous, I can’t get enough.”

They stop, absorbing the words into their skin. Jon feels the telltale prick of pride. Elias thought he was fascinating, Elias had looked into the core of his being and liked what he saw, Elias had chosen him. Thoughts like this were a betrayal of his friends, the people he cared about. Elias had made them suffer, Elias had bound them to his seat of power sacrificing them to his voyeuristic god, Elias had hurt people, Elias had killed. He could hold both these truths in his hands—the complexities; the twists and turns of Elias Bouchard.

The archivist could hold these thoughts and truths, he just didn’t know what to do with them.

* * *

The next time they meet is a reversal of the first time. They are in Elias’ office and the chairs here are much more comfortable. There is a large portrait of a man staring down at him with the same incandescent green eyes Elias has, eyes that never let you go. Jon can’t see Elias as yet but can feel his gaze burning the back of his head. It’s just a dream, he tells himself, but he can’t dispel the warmth that slowly radiates from that spot throughout his body.

The Archivist then remembers his friends and the warmth is accompanied by shame. He hadn’t asked about them; hadn’t asked if they had managed to stop The Unknowing. He had been so caught up in his own head, relishing the time he had to himself, he had forgotten his priorities.

His voice cuts through the silence that was building. “How are they?”

“Dead,” Elias breathes with a smug sort of satisfaction. The Archivist goes very still, knowing any reaction will be eagerly catalogued by the man behind him. 

“Martin?”

“He’s fine,” Elias says, his voice dropping a bit of the smugness. “He’s… getting reacquainted with himself.”

Jon doesn’t know what to think, even in his dreams, Elias refuses to be anyone but himself. All Jon knows is the fact that he can discern the man’s intentions behind his words spells doom for him. He has never been great with his feelings, preferring to brush them aside and focus on logic. On what needs doing. But a dream is not conducive to this approach, all he can do here is sit with his feelings, and Elias. 

Elias walks to the table in front of him, his steps slow and measured, and sits down. Jon always forgets the intensity of his presence. Elias is the kind of man that once you properly see him, he never fades into the background again, like a switch has been flicked on, flooding your senses with him. 

Jon takes just a moment to savour the light before he asks: “Why are you doing this?”

“What do you mean?” Elias grins and Jon has the distinct feeling that he’s getting to the core of something but he doesn’t know what as yet. 

“Trapping us here, forcing us into situations like these.”

“Don’t you believe you’re saving the world?”

“I don’t believe _you_ have any interest in keeping the world safe”

“Well, I live in it, don’t I?”

He’s right but he’s also lying. The Archivist can tell, and he wonders if he can compel him. Something about Elias’ posture is bothering him, he’s almost got an answer, he’s almost beginning to understand but he isn’t quite there yet. Being so close is frustrating, Jon needs to know. Compulsion didn’t work on Elias last time, in fact he had made a thing about proving it didn’t work but this is Jon’s dream. Maybe it will work this time?

“What is this all for?” he asks again and watches the man’s reaction. 

Elias closes his eyes, and takes in a deep shuddering breath, throwing his head back slightly. His delicate, perfect throat bobs as he swallows and Jon feels hyper-aware of him. His every movement down to his fluttering eyelids and the grin spilling across his face like a lazy sunrise, and free from the intensity of his gaze Jon stumbles upon the revelation.

“You're _him_.” 

Elias' eyes snap open and he frowns surreptitiously at the loss of the compulsion. “I was rather enjoying that.”

“The Statue at the entrance, the portrait on your wall, the bust in the library.”

“You'll have to compel me again sometime.”

“Jonah Magnus, founder of the Magnus Institute” 

Then, finally Elias smiles his shark smile and his expression settles into his face. “Hello, Jon.”

“How?”

“Well I can’t give out all my secrets, You’ll lose interest then.” Another smug, cat that caught the canary smile that Jon wants to wipe right off his face. Jon really doesn't know how a man can look even more smug, but this man manages it, and Jon has never been a violent person but he definitely has it in him to shove him. “Let’s just say we serve a very powerful God.”

Jon shakes his head. “We're going to figure out a way to get ourselves out eventually, you understand?” 

“You can try. It keeps life interesting,” he shrugs.

* * *

“So how are you doing today my archivist? How are the dreams?” 

“You know.” The Archivist isn't exactly tired but he feels like he should be. He should be weary, stuck in here wandering from place to place, forcing people to relive their terrors. He isn't but there is a hollow space within him where he recognises these feelings should go. It unsettles him, that they aren't there.

“I do,” says Elias, all cheery-voiced. He seems to be in a remarkably good mood today. “But I'd like you to tell me anyway.”

“Why?”

“Does it matter? You know you won't be able to hold any answers you get in here. When we exist in here we exist only in the now.”

“Tell me anyway. I need to know.” That's the whole truth. Because no matter how much Jon tries to run from their god, it has its claws deep in his ribs, scratching at them from the inside, an itch he can never soothe. He needs to know, needs it like caged things need escape, needs it like pure forest green needs rot.

Elias takes in a breath, his chest moving under his well fitted shirt. Here's another thing Jon needs: this man. He can't explain it, but he suspects he and Elias are inexplicably tied up together, they will never be fully free from each other's orbit.

"It's another way for the fear to manifest. You eat their fear, you say it out loud and then eat it again. It's quite economical actually, this system. Saying things aloud makes them more real.”

He's not lying, but it's not the complete truth either. For a moment The Archivist debates compelling him but ultimately decides he won't get much out of it. Elias only does what Elias wants.

Instead he says it plain. “That's not the complete truth.”

“It tells you what you need to hear.”

“But not what I want.”

“Tell me about the dreams, Jon.”

“I barely feel anything. I should be tired or horrified or something, but I'm just not. I suspect I'm becoming something of a monster.”

Elias hmms thoughtfully. “Effects of dying I suppose. I wouldn't know. We'll get you out of here soon enough, your humanity or monstrosity intact.”

“Your turn.”

“You fascinate me Jon.” Elias swallows, his throat bobbing. His neck. His chest. His expression doesn't change. “I always want to know what you think.”

Jon can barely breathe in his office. That's where today's dream is located. Elias slides out of the sensible chair across from him and sits on the table between them. Right in front of Jon. He's so close Jon imagines the heat radiating out from him. Thermodynamics in motion, tending towards entropy. The stars could explode and nothing about this moment would change, the way it stills infinitesimally. Then Elias leans forward, cracking the stillness and Jon gets to his feet.

He's face to face with the man; just an acolyte and his devotee and Jon takes a moment to drink in his hungry gluttonous eyes. He can't even begin to untangle the guilt from the want, but Elias slowly leans his head back, baring his throat.

The Archivist kisses the throat he was previously admiring and Elias closes his eyes, stealing this moment away from their god.

“You will have to give me a statement one day,” mumbles Jon against his skin.

“I've already given you so many,” replies Elias, before finally finding Jon's mouth with his own.

Kissing Elias blanks The Archivist's mind, rendering it incoherent like a magnet near a tape. It's electric, eclectic, an action Jon could live inside if he wanted. After a single shell shocked moment he kisses the man back, his hands tangling up in his hair, gripping tufts of it tightly. Elias tastes better than he could have imagined if he ever let his mind wander that far. 

It doesn't feel soft or gentle or sweet, this is Jon being assertive, taking what he wants from a man all too willing to give it. Elias has taken so much from all of them, he's made them miserable. Jon tries to put that into the kiss, that misery, that fear, all those unlovely feelings. Elias could have them if he wants them so badly, Jon refuses to carry them any longer. His lips move against his with a quiet desperation to be understood, to be seen. Jon can't breathe, can't think, all he knows is Elias in front of him, and their god above, watching them.

Finally he pulls away, breathing heavily.

Elias wipes his lips with his thumb. “I expect this is the last time we'll see each other for a while.”

Jon is glad to note Elias' voice isn't as smooth as it normally is. His hair is all messed up as well, and for the first time since Jon has ever known him, the man looks human. Fallible. 

“—You'll have a choice soon, I expect,” he continues. 

“What?” 

And then finally Elias grins, his smile crooked and wicked and real. “You'll see, my darling archive. You'll see.”

**Author's Note:**

> aaaah thank you for reading!!!! please review if you liked it and tell me what you think!!!


End file.
